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PRICE 10 CENTS. 




e Seaside Library. Pocket Edition, Issued Tri-weekly. By Subscription $36 per annum, 
jhted 1883, by George Munro.— Entered at the Post Office at Ne\v tork at second class rates.— Oct. 4, 1883. 



THE STORY OF IDA. 



EPITAPH ON AN ETRURIAN TOMB. 



By FRANCESCA, 



EDITED, WITH PREFACE, BT 

JOHN RUSKIN, D.C.L., 

HONORARY STUDENT OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD ; HONORARY FELLOW OF 

CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, OXFORD; AND SLADE PROFESSOR 

OF FINE ARTS, OXFORD. 




NEW YORK: 
GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street. 



\ 



THE STORY OF IDA, 



By FRANCESCA. 



PREFACE. 



For now some ten or twelve years I have been asking 
every good writer whom I knew, to write somo part of 
what was exactly true, in the greatest of the sciences, that 
of Humanity. It seemed to me time that the Poet and Ro- 
mance-writer should become now the strict historian of 
days which, professing the openest proclamation of them- 
selves, kept yet in secrecy all that was most beautiful, all 
that was most woful, in the multitude of their unshep- 
herded souls. And, during these years of unanswered 
petitioning, I have become more and more convinced that 
the wholesomest antagonism to whatever is dangerous in 
the temper, or foolish in the extravagance, of modern 
Fiction, would be found in sometimes substituting for the 
artfully-combined improbability, the careful record of 
providentially ordered" Fact. 

Providentially, I mean, not in the fitting together of 
evil so as to produce visible good, — but in the enforce- 
ment, though under shadows which mean but the differ- 
ence between finite and infinite knowledge, of certain laws 
of moral retribution which enough indicate for our guid- 
ance, the Will, and for our comfort, the Presence, of the 
Judge and Father of men, 



6 THE STORY OF IDA. 

It might be thought that the function of such domestic 
history was enough fulfilled by the frequency and full de- 
tail of modern biography. But lives in which the public 
are interested are scarcely ever worth writing. For the 
most part compulsorily artificial, often affectedly so, — on 
the whole, fortunate beyond ordinary rule, — and, so far 
as the men are really greater than others, unintelligible to 
the common reader, — the lives of statesmen, soldiers, au- 
thors, artists, or any one habitually set in the sight of many, 
tell us at last little more than what sort of people they 
dealt with, and of pens they wrote with; the personal life 
is inscrutably broken up, — often contemptibly, and the 
external aspect of it merely a husk, at the best. The 
lives we need to have written for us are of the people 
whom the world has not thought of, — far less heard of, — 
who are yet doing the most of its work, and of whom we 
may learn how it can best be done. 

The following story of a young Florentine girl's too 
short life is absolutely and simply true: it was written only 
for memorial of her among her friends, by the one of them 
that loved her best, and who knew her perfectly. That 
it was not written for publication will be felt after read- 
ing a few sentences; and I have had a certain feeling of 
desecrating its humility of affection, ever since I asked 
leave to publish it. 

In the close of the first lecture given on my return to 
my duties in Oxford, will be found all that I am minded at 
present to tell concerning the writer, and her friends among 
the Italian poor; and perhaps I, even thus, have told more 
than I ought, though not in the least enough to express my 
true regard and respect for her, or my admiration of her 
powers of rendering, with the severe industry of an en- 
graver, the most pathetic instants of action and expression 
in the person she loves. Her drawing of Ida, as she lay 
asleep in the evening of the last day of the year 1872, has 
been very beautifully and attentively, yet not without nec- 
essary loss, reduced in the frontispiece, by Mr. W. Roffe, 
from its own size, three-quarters larger; — and thus, 
strangely, and again let me say providentially, I can show, 
in the same book, examples of the purest truth, both in 
history and picture. Of invented effects of light and shade 
on imaginary scenes, it seems to me we have admired too 



THE STORY OF IDA. 7 

many. Here is a real passage of human life, seen in the 
light that Heaven sent for it. 

One earnest word only I have to add here, for the read- 
er's sake; — let it be noted with thankful reverence that this 
is the story of a Catholic girl, written by a Protestant one, 
yet the two of them so united in the Truth of the Chris- 
tian Faith, and in the joy of its Love, that they were ab- 
solutely unconscious of any difference in the forms or letter 
of their religion. J. Ruskin - . 

Brantwood, HtJb April, 1883. 



PART I. 

A week ago yesterday, I looked for the last time on 
her who has been, for so long, at once a care and a help to 
me. 

I feel that her life has left a great peacef illness in mine, 
that will be a long time before it quite fades away, like 
the light which remains so long after sunset on a summer 
evening; and while I am yet, as it were, within her in- 
fluence, I have wished to write down a little of what I 
remember of her, that so beautiful a life and death may 
not be quite forgotten. 

It is now nearly four years ago, that a school-teacher, 
who had been long a friend of mine, came to ask that I 
would interest myself for one of her scholars, who was 
about to pass a difficult examination, that she might ob- 
tain a diploma of Maestra Communale. Giulia — that was 
the young girl's name — was a pleasant, fresh-looking girl, 
with honest, bright blue eyes, and dark hair that curled 
lightly about her forehead. Her voice and face interested 
me at once; and I soon found out that her history also 
was an interesting one. She was one of a family of fifteen 
children, then all dead but three; her father was ad- 
vanced in life, her mother was an invalid, and they were 
all very poor. There was a sad story also in the family. 
One of Giulia's elder brothers had been married, and lived 
happily for some years with his wife. She died, leaving 
him with four little children; and such was the violence 
of his grief, that his mind gave way, — not all at once, 
but little by little. Gradually he began to neglect his 



$ THE STORY OF IDA. 

work, his language and behavior were agitated and unlike 
bis usual self, he wandered much about without an object, 
— and one day the report of a pistol was heard in his room, 
and that was the last! The grandparents had taken home 
all the poor little orphans, and it was to assist in support- 
ing them that Giulia wished to be a teacher. 

She had been studying very hard — so hard that she had 
finished in six months the studies which should have oc- 
cupied a year! She was an energetic little body, made bold 
by the necessities of the children: and she went about to 
the various offices, and had all the needful papers made out, 
and obtained introductions to all those persons whom she 
thought likely to help her in her object. Of course I was 
too happy to do what I could — very little as it happened— 
and Giulia's youth, and hopefulness, and bright spirit, were 
like sunshine in my room. She was much there in those 
days, talking over her prospects, and what was to be done. 
One day she came with a very beautiful companion, a little 
girl of sixteen: "I have brought my sister; she wanted to 
see you," she said, by way of apology; and that was how I 
came to know Ida. 

She was very lovely then; I do not think that any of the 
pictures which I afterward took of her, were quite so pretty 
as she was. Let me see if I can describe her. She was a 
little taller than Giulia, and perhaps rather too slight for 
perfect beauty, but singularly graceful both in form and 
movement. Such a shape as the early painters used to im- 
agine for their young saints, with more spirit than sub- 
stance about it; her hair was dark, almost black, quite 
straight, as fine as silk, soft, heavy, and abundant; and she 
wore it turned back from her face, as was the fashion just 
then, displaying to the best advantage a clear, broad, intel- 
lectual forehead. She had a regular oval face, rather small 
than large; with soft black eyes of wonderful beauty and 
gentleness, shaded by perhaps the longest lashes which I 
ever saw — with a pretty little straight nose (which gave a 
peculiar prettiness to her profile), and a mouth not very 
small, but beautiful in form and most delicate in expres- 
sion. Her teeth were very white, brilliant, and regular; 
her complexion was dark, without much color, except in 
her lips, which were of a deep red. When she was a little 
out of breath, however, or when she was animated in talk- 
ing^ a bright glow used to come up in her cheeks, always 



THE STORY OF IDA. 9 

disappearing almost before one knew that it was there. She 
and I made great friends during that first visit: she liked 
me, as a matter of coarse, because Giulia liked me; and on 
my part, it would have been impossible that I should not 
love anything so beautiful and innocent and affectionate. I 
did not let her go until we had arranged that I should take 
her likeness; and from that time forward, as long as Ida 
lived, I was almost half the time employed either in draw- 
ing or painting her. It was seldom that I could keep any 
picture of her for more than a little while: every one used 
to ask me where I had found such a beautiful face. 

It is pleasant to me now to look back at those days, be- 
fore any shadow came over that peaceful and most innocent 
life. Those long happy mornings in my painting room, 
when she used to become so excited over my fairy stories 
and ballads, and tried to learn them all by heart to tell to 
Giulia; and when she, in turn, confided to me all the events 
and interests of her short life. One thing I soon discovered, 
— that she was quite as beautiful in mind as in person. If I 
tell all the truth of what Ida was, I am sure that it will seem 
to any one who did not know her as if I were inventing. 
She seemed, even in those early days, like one who lived 
nearer heaven than other people. 

I have never quite understood it myself; she had been 
brought up more in the world than is usual with Italian 
girls, for (as I have said) her parents were poor, and her 
mother sickly, and she had been obliged, even from early 
childhood, to work hard for her daily bread. It seems al- 
most impossible that no bad influence should ever have 
come near her; but if it ever did, it passed by without 
harming her, for there was nothing in her on which it could 
take hold. Her mind seemed to turn naturally to every- 
thing that was good and beautiful, while what was evil 
made no impression on her, but passed by her as if it had 
not been. 

She lived in a dismal old house, up a great many stairs, 
in one of the poorest streets of the city. All this does not 
sound very pleasant; but what did Ida see there? Any one 
else would have seen, looking from the windows there, dirty 
old houses out of repair, crammed full of poverty, broken 
windows, leaky roofs, rickety stairs, rags hung out to dry 
from garret windows, pale, untidy, discouraged women, 
neglected children. Ida saw the bright sky, and the swal- 



10 tttt: story of tda. 

lows that built under the eaves, and the moss and flowers 
that grew between the tiles on the old roofs. And from 
one window she could see a little far-away glimpse of the 
country, and from another she could look down into a gar- 
den. She saw the poor neighbors besides, but to her they 
were all people to be loved, and pitied, and sympathized 
with. Whatever there was good, in any of them, she found 
it out, and ignored everything else. It was a peculiarity of 
my Ida, that all the people with whom she was intimately 
acquainted were, in some way or other, " very remarkable. " 
She never admitted that they had any faults. One old 
woman whose temper was so fearful that nobody could live 
with her, was " a good old woman, but a little nervous. She 
had been an invalid for many years, and was a great suf- 
ferer, and naturally she had her days when things worried 
her." An idle, dirty old fellow, who lodged in the same 
house, — who lived principally by getting into debt at one 
eating-house until the owner would trust him no longer, 
and then going to another, — she described as "an unfortu- 
nate gentleman in reduced circumstances, who had been 
educated in high life, and consequently had never learnt to 
do anything. Besides, he was a poet, and poets are always 
peculiar." A profane man, who talked atheism, she chari- 
tably said was probably insane. Poor little Ida! The time 
came when her eyes were opened by force; when she saw 
sin in its ugliness in the person of one who was very dear to 
her, — and then she died. 

But that was some time afterward. I am writing now 
of that first happy winter, when I was coming, little by lit- 
tle, to know what my companion was. All that she was, I 
never knew till after she was gone. Ida was a little seam- 
stress, and she was then only beginning to earn money. 
Thirty centimes a day* was what she gained when she 
worked for a shop, and for this she used to sit at the sewing 
machine until past midnight. Sometimes she used to sew 
for ladies at their houses, and then she earned a franc a day 
or more. 

Her parents allowed her to keep all her own earnings, that 
she might clothe herself; but there was always something 
that she wanted for father, or mother, or Giulia, or the lit- 

* Three English pence. The larger payment at private houses, a 
franc, is one hundred centimes, or tenpence. 



THE STORY OF*IDA. 11 

tie orphans, more than anything that she wanted for her- 
self; so that her own dress was always kept down to objects 
of the strictest necessity. I am sure it was not that she did 
not care for pretty things as much as any other girl: if any 
of the ladies where she worked gave her a piece of ribbon, 
or a scrap of colored silk, or anything else that was bright 
and pretty,' it was an unending amusement to make it up 
in some fanciful and becoming style, whether for Giulia or 
herself, though she always enjoyed the most working for 
Giulia. But generally she was engaged in saving money, 
a few centimes at a time, to buy a present for somebody, 
which was a great secret, confided to me under promise of 
silence. One centime a day she always laid by for " the 
poor." " It is very little," she said, " but I save it up un- 
til Sunday, and it is enough to buy a piece of bread for an 
old blind man, who always comes to us for his breakfast on 
Sunday morning." 

When the time came for Giulia to pass her examina- 
tion, Ida came to my room every day, and sometimes twice 
a day, to tell me what progress she was making. Often 
she came when I was not at home, and then she would 
write a note with my pencil on a scrap of paper, and pin 
it up to the window-frame, where I should be sure to 
see it. I have kept some of these little notes up to this 
time, written in a childish round hand, telling how many 
"marks" Giulia had received for geography, and how 
many for grammar, all signed in the same way — "La sua 
Ida die li vuol tanto bene!" As long as she lived, her let- 
ters were always signed in the same way. Often I would 
find two or three flowers, carefully arranged by her hand, 
in a glass of water on my table; or, if I had left my door 
locked, they would be made into a fanciful bunch, and 
tied with a bit of blue ribbon on the door-handle. Giulia 
passed her examination triumphantly, as she deserved to 
do; and soon after obtained a place as teacher in one of 
the free schools. I remember that there was a great ex- 
citement at that time with regard to a new dress, which 
Giulia was to wear when she took charge of her class. Ida 
had been saving money for a great while to buy that 
dress — it was a gray alpaca — and it was all made, and 
trimmed, and ready to put on, before Giulia knew any- 
thing about it. First I saw the dress unmade, and then 
made; and then Giulia hurried over to show it to me, 



12 THE STOKY OF IDA. 

supposing that I should be as much surprised as she 
was. 

Meanwhile the winter had passed into spring, and 
spring was wearing fast into summer, and my pretty Ida 
was beginning to look rather poorly. She grew very 
thin, and had but little appetite; I thought also that she 
looked rather sad — but if I asked her what was the mat- 
ter, she always said that she was tired, and felt the warm 
weather. I forgot to say that her mother let rooms to 
lodgers; by the way, the vagabond poet of whom I have 
spoken was a lodger of hers. A man who had lodged with 
them for some time had just then left them; and a mili- 
tary officer had taken his room. I remember still the day 
when Ida first spoke to me of this man, and seemed 
pleased that her mother had found a new lodger instead 
of the old one. Oh, if I could only have warned her 
against him then! 

But, as I have said, Ida seemed to be fading, and I 
felt pretty anxious about her. We were going up to the 
mountains about that time, and when we parted she said, 
" Perhaps you will not find me when you come back; I feel 
as if I should not live very long." But she -could give 
me no reason for this presentiment, and I attached no 
great importance to it, thinking only that she was weak 
and nervous. After we had been for a few weeks at S. 
Marcello, I received a letter from her, almost unintelligi- 
ble, written evidently in great distress of mind, in which 
she entreated me, if possible, to come to Florence that she 
might speak to me, as she was in much trouble. She add- 
ed that she wished she had confided in me sooner; and 
begged me in no case to let any one know that I had re- 
ceived a letter from her, but to direct my answer to the 
post-office, and not to the house. I was greatly alarmed, 
and wrote to her without losing a minute, telling her that 
it was impossible that I could go to Florence (as the 
journey was much longer than I had supposed), and beg- 
ging her to write again immediately, and tell me what 
was really the matter. After two or three days of almost 
unbearable suspense her answer came, — long enough, and 
plain enough, this time. I wished now that I had kept 
her letter, that I might tell this part of her sad story in 
her own words. In my own, it is hard for me to tell it 
without speaking more harshly than I would, of one who 



THE STORY OF IDA. 13 

has at least this claim on my forbearance — that Ida loved 
him! 

The military officer of whom I have spoken, who had 
then been for three or four months in the house, had fallen 
in love with Ida, in his fashion: that is, she was not his 
first love, probably not his last, but she pleased him. 
He was a man of not far from forty years old, good-looking 
in a certain way, broad-shouldered, tall, fresh-colored; 
and very much of a gentleman in his manners. He was 
a man of talent besides, and he had traveled much in his 
military life, and could tell interesting stories of strange 
places and people. He had also read a great deal, and 
could talk of various authors, and quote poetry on all oc- 
casions. As a soldier and an Italian, he had, I believe, 
done himself honor. 

I wish I could think that there was some foundation 
of truth in the passionate attachment which he professed 
for Ida. I suppose he was fond of her somewhat, for I 
do not see what reason he could have had for pretend- 
ing it. He said himself, afterward, by way of excuse, that 
he was " blinded by passion ": so let it be, Ida was then 
just seventeen, growing prettier every day, a delicate, spir- 
itual little creature, looking as if the wind might blow her 
away; and this military hero, with the broad shoulders and 
the fair hair, threw himself at her feet, so to say; courted 
her passionately, desperately; and Ida gave him her heart 
unreservedly, and trusted him as she trusted her father 
and mother. I sometimes fancy that this man made love 
to Ida at first partly to amuse himself, to see if he could 
not put something of this world into the heart of this gen- 
tle little saint, who lived always, as it were, half in heaven. 
But if so, he was disappointed. This love once admitted 
into her heart became, like all other feelings, something 
sacred and noble; so that, even at this day, it seems to 
me in a certain way to ennoble the object of it, unworthy 
as he was; and I cannot say a word that might bring dis- 
credit on his name. 

He wished to marry her immediately; and her father 
and mother, simple, pious, kind-hearted people, who would 
have given their lives for the happiness of their chil- 
dren, consented willingly. They knew that he was poor 
and an orphan, but they were not ambitious for their 
pretty daughter; and they promised to take him home, 



14 THE STORY OF IDA. 

and keep him as a son of their own. But now came the 

difficulty. L * was an officer in the army, and by the 

present law in Italy an officer, until he reaches some par- 
ticular rank, — I think that of colonel, — is not permitted 
to marry, unless the woman of his choice has a certain 

amount of dowry. L had about two years and a half 

left to serve in thearmy, before he would be entitled to 
a pension. Now, Ida was so very young that there seemed 
nothing very dreadful in the idea of waiting, but her lover 
was a great deal too ardent for that. His proposal was — 
and he would hear of nothing else — that they should be 
married immediately by & religious marriage, leaving 
the civil marriage — the only one now legal — until another 
time, when his career in the. army should be finished. 
The poor child knew nothing of civil and religious mar- 
riages, but she was a little frightened at the idea that her 
marriage would be a secret from the whole world; and al- 
together she was far from happy, — he told her so many 
things that she was never to tell any one, and such fearful 
ruin was to overtake them both if ever their union was 
discovered. Meanwhile he was very tender and grateful 
and reverential, not only to her but to all the family. 
Now at last — so he used to say — " he knew what it was 
to have a home and a mother! What a mercy that he, 
who had suffered so much in his wandering life, who had 
been so lonely and friendless, should have anchored at 
last in that peaceful Christian home!" That was the way 
he used to talk. 

Meanwhile Giulia, the sensible, clear-sighted Giulia, 
whose heart was all bound up in her little sister, felt an 

unspeakable antipathy to L . On the same day when 

Ida's second letter arrived at S. Marceilo, explaining to me 
her circumstances, one came also from Giulia, giving her 
version of the story, no way differing from Ida's in the 
facts, but even more sad and frightened. " I cannot tell 
you, dear Signora Francesca," she wrote, " in what a state 
of continual agitation I pass my time at present, and how 
unhappy I am about our J da. God grant that all may 
go well! Mother has gone to the priest to-day to see what 
they can do." I knew afterward that Giulia, finding all 

* L. is not the initial of the lover's real name, nor of that by 
which Ida called him, which is used by Francesca in her manuscript. 



THE STORY OF IDA. 15 

persuasions fail with her sister (and indeed she had noth- 
ing then to bring up against L , except her instinctive 

dread and dislike of him), entreated her mother, even with 
tears, to prevent the marriage by any means whatever. 
But the good Signora Martina (who was just as pretty, 
and gentle, and soft-hearted as Ida herself) could not bear 
the pale, wasting face of her younger daughter and her 
little hands that were growing so thin, and her sad voice; 
and she thought that it all came of her love for the captain, 
and that, if she consented to the secret marriage, Ida would 
grow bright and happy again. 

I, at that time, knew almost nothing about such things, 
and could not therefore advise very strongly on one side 
or the other. But it pleased the Lord that the worst 

should not happen to our Ida. L was called away 

from Florence at a few hours' notice, to join his regiment, 
on the very clay before the one fixed for the marriage. 
The government was just then making its preparations 
for the taking of Rome. What she suffered from this sep- 
aration is not to be told, yet I feel that it was a providence 
to save her from far greater evil. When we came back 
to Florence in September I found Ida quite changed in ap- 
pearance, but patient and resigned, as she always was — will- 
ing, as she said, to leave all in the Lord's hand. "Her 

L was so good!" she used to tell me: "he had been so 

kind to his own family!" in particular to his brother's 
widow, who had been left in destitution with two little 
children, and to whom he was continually sending money, 
though he had so little to send. He did not, however, 
wish to have anything said about this woman, as he 
feared that Ida's parents might not so willingly consent 
to the marriage, if they knew that he was so burdened. 

L always had a great many things that he did not wish 

anything said about. Giulia, however, had her suspicions, 
and I had mine, about this brother's widow. We both 
spoke about them — Giulia, I rather think, pretty freely 
— to * Ida. She had resolution enough, when right and 
wrong were concerned; and without saying anything to 
Giulia she went to the post-office, and inquired of the 
people employed there, if her lover were really in the habit 
of sending money to Naples, where his sister-in-law lived, 
and to whom. A record is always kept at the post-office of 
all the money that comes and goes, so that it was easy 



16 THE STORY OV IDA. 

to ascertain the truth. And she found that he frequently 
sent money to a woman in Naples, bearing the same family 
name as himself. So she and I and Giulia were all quite 
satisfied. There was a depth of wickedness that we could 
not imagine, and that even now I find it hard fully to be- 
lieve, with all the proofs before me! 

And now the Italian troops were preparing to march 
upon Rome, and we were all fearing a great battle; which 
really never came. We were all preparing lint and band- 
ages, thinking that they might be wanted, as on former 
occasions; and my mother gave out work of this sort to all 
whom she could find to do it. Ida, I remember, refused 
to be paid for any work of this sort which she did for the 

army; saying, " Perhaps it may go for L ," — and 

while she sat, very pale and quiet, over her lint-making in 
my room, I drew that picture of her which I called " La 
Fidanzatadel Capitano," which I think more like her than 
any of my other pictures, though not half so pretty as she 
was, for all that. 

And now I am coming to the darkest part of my Ida's his- 
tory — a time when she suffered much, and which I do not 
like very well to think about. I said before that I did not 
know much then about civil marriage. The law had not 
been in operation more than a little while. But at the 
same" time, I did not feel quite easy about this marriage 
which was to be kept a secret. It seemed to me that my 
poor Ida was passing into a perfect network of secrets and 
mystery. I knew that the captain intended to marry her 
when he should come back from Rome — and that would 
probably be very soon. So I consulted a friend, who knew 
more about such things than I did, and she told me just 
what this religious marriage was — that is, as far as its con- 
sequences for this world were concerned, no marriage at 
all. Then I thought that I ought to tell Ida what she was 
doing, — which was not very easy, for I knew how her 
heart was bound up in L . 

One day, up there in my room, we talked it all over, 
and I told her, as gently as I could, all that had been told 
to me. She was much shocked and distressed, and shed a 
great many tears, but quietly. What affected her most was 
the idea that such a marriage might bring misery on her 
children, if she should ever have any. "It must be fear- 
ful," she said, "for a woman to feel remorse in the pres- 



THE STORY OF IDA. 17 

eiice of her children, — to see them in misery and to think 
1 1 brought this trouble upon them!'" Then she added, 
" People have all been very cruel not to have told me these 
things before! I knew that I could not have borne such 
a life." Still, she was not willing at that time to make me 
a definite promise that she would not do it. I was anxious 
that she should do so, as we were about going away for a 
month's visit to Padova and Bassano. During that month 

I knew that L was expected in Florence, and I feared 

his influence upon her. Ida was so very gentle, and 
usually so submissive to those about her, that I did not 
then comprehend the true strength and determination of 
her character. 

A day or two afterward she came to say good-by before 
I went/ "I had a sad night/' she said, " after our talk 

the other day; I could not sleep for thinking of L . 

But you must not think hardly of him: he has always 
meant well, but he is a passionate, impulsive man, and 
does not know always how to stop and think of the conse- 
quences. You must not be anxious about me while you are 
away. I cannot make you any promise, just now, but I 
have quite resolved never to marry until we can be married 
legally, and I hope that I can promise you this when you 
come back." During the month that we were away I heard 
no more of Ida, and those to whom I told her story shook 
their heads, and prophesied that the captain would have 
it all his own way when he should come to Florence. I 
did not think so, but I kept silence, for I had no reason for 
my faith, excepting a certain look in Ida's beautiful eyes 
when she said those words to me, — a look humble aud yet 
steadfast, as of one strong in another's strength, — a look 
that I would give a good deal if I could put in some of 
my pictures of saints. 

When at last I did come back, Ida came to my room 
as soon as she heard that I was there. She looked pale 
and frightened and ill, and began to talk almost before she 
was in the room, as if she had something that she was in 
a great hurry to say. "I have come to make you that 
promise, Signora Francesca, which I could not make you 
before you went away. I promise you that 1 will never 

marry L , nor any one else, excepting by a lawful 

marriage." " I thought," I said, " that you had come to 
tell me this, and I am very thankful to hear it." "And 



18 THE STORY OP IDA. 

I have been in such a hurry," she said, "for you to come 
home that I might say this to you. I have been afraid 
always that my courage would not hold out." I then 
asked her to tell me exactly how it had all gone. She said 
that L had come back from Eome about a week be- 
fore, fully prepared for the marriage. She had not told 
him of her change of resolution before his return — she 
could not make up h°r mind to write it to him: but as 
soon as he came, and she had a chance to speak to him 
alone, she told him all that I had told her, saying that 
she had consented at first to the religious marriage in 
ignorance, but that she was now convinced that it would 
be wrong. At first he seems to have thought, as every one 
else thought, that he could make Ida do what he pleased; 
then, when he found that she stood firm against all his 
persuasions, he went into a passion, and terrified the poor 
girl beyond measure with his violence, still without shak- 
ing her resolution. And then he left her in anger, and 
went away from Florence without seeing her again, and 
she had not heard from him since. She had been ill — 
had been three days confined to her bed — and she looked 
half dead; and I noticed then, for the first time, that 
peculiar tone in her voice which it never afterward lost. 

Still, she said that she was not sorry for what she had 
done, let it end as it might. It was all in God's hands 
now, and as He had ordered it, so it would be. She had 
been very unhappy, but she felt less so now that I had 
come; and it would certainly have been a great deal worse 

if she had married L first and found out all these 

things afterward. I tried to comfort her, though I myself 
felt a good deal shocked and surprised at the turn which 

things had taken. I told her that if L really cared 

for her he would write to her again, and would be willing 
to wait for the two years and a half. " I cannot feel," 
she said, " as if it could ever come right now, but we shall 
see." 

Two days afterward she really did receive a very penitent 

and affectionate letter from L , which she brought to 

me; but she was not very much cheered by it. She still 

loved L , but she no longer trusted him, though she 

always tried to excuse his conduct in speaking of him; but 
I do not know if there be anything in the world more 
unhappy than love without trust. He had been ordered to 



THE STOKY OF IDA. 19 

Sicily, to fight the brigands, and they were not likely to 
meet again for many months. I did not quite know what 
to make of this letter: it was very fervent in its expres- 
sions of affection, full of desperate sorrow for the long and 
inevitable separation. But there was not a word in it about 
marriage. I noticed the same thing in his succeeding 
letters, which for a long time she always brought for me 
to read. Some of them were very beautiful letters, full of 
interesting descriptions, and of much tender and lofty sen- 
timent. He would speak of her as " the lamp that gave 
light to his life"; he sent many affectionate and reverential 
messages to " the dear mother whom he loved as his 
own" (and only to think of the trouble that he brought on 
this dear mother!), but he never spoke of their marriage, 
or of their future home. Besides, his letters were, to my 
mind, just a little too virtuous, too full of sensitive shrink- 
ing from other people's sins, pathetic lamentations about 
the wickedness of the Sicilians, and paternal advice to 
Ida, who was so much better than he was! That style 
may do very well for a clergyman, but 1 rather distrust 
it in a military man. However, I supposed that all would 
end well, and that there was probably some reason, more 

than I knew, for whatever seemed strange in L 's con-* 

duct. I tried to keep up Ida's courage — more, I think 
now, than I should have done — but she was gradually 
coming to talk less about L ; less, indeed, about any- 
thing. She liked better than anything else to sit and read 
when she came to my room. She took her choice always of 
my books, generally choosing poetry — religious poetry 
rather than anything else; and she used to read aloud to 
me with great simplicity of manner (for she had never 
been taught declamation), but with a certain tone in her 
voice which invariably put me into tears, so that I some- 
times had to stop her reading, as it made me unable to go 
on with my work. The room which had been occupied by 

L when he lived in Florence had now been taken by a 

married couple; the husband was an officer, and his wife 
married to him only by a religious marriage. This poor 
woman was very unhappy, and she confided her troubles 
to Ida, who often spoke to me about her. Once she said 
to me that I had done a great deal for her in many ways 
(this was only a fancy of hers, arising out of her strong 
affection for me), but never so much as when I had pre- 



20 THE STORY OF IDA. 

vented the religions marriage; that she should have died 
if she had found herself in the condition of her poor neigh- 
bor. It was a comfort to me that she said so, as I had 
begun to feel almost sorry for the part which I had taken, 
seeing how she was pining, and to wish that I had not in- 
terfered about this marriage, which, after all, however 
dangerous, would not have been regarded by the Church 
as sinful. But I knew now that I did right in that 

matter. She gradually stopped bringing L 's letters 

for me to read; and when I spoke of him, she used to tell 
me that the feeling was strong in her mind that she should 

never be L 's wife, and that she tried not to think too 

much about it, nor to set her heart upon it, but to keep 
herself "ready for the Lord's will, whatever it might be." 

One day she found a Neto Testament in my room,* the 
first which she had ever seen; and after that she never 
cared so much for any other book, but would sit and read 
chapter after chapter with never-failing delight, only in- 
terrupting herself now and then to say, " How beautiful!" 
"When Giulia had a holiday she used to come also, and she 
was as much pleased with the Testament as her sister. 
The two girls would sit by me while I painted, by the 
hour together, and one would read till her voice was tired, 
and then hand the book to her sister; and so they would 
go on taking turns until they would read often more than 
twenty chapters at once. When I found they did not 
grow tired of it, I gave them a Testament to keep for 
themselves, and such was their excitement that they cat up 
reading it nearly ail the first night after they had it. 

Meanwhile, poor Ida had continued to grow thin and 
pale, and did not eat enough for a sparrow. We took her 
to our good English doctor, but he was not able to do much 
for her, and indeed could not tell what was the matter with 
her. He thought that the room where she slept was un- 
healthy, as there was no window in it. The family, being 
poor, were obliged to let all their good rooms, and to occupy 
all the dark and inconvenient ones themselves; so that Ida 
and Giulia and their little niece Luisa slept all together 
in what was really nothing more than a dark closet. He 
thought also that she bad injured herself by drawing water 
for her mother, who took in washing. So Giulia, out of 

* Italics mine.— J. R. 



THE STORY OF IDA. 21 

her small earnings, hired a woman to come every day to 
draw the water, and the poet received notice to leave his 
room at the beginning of the next month. This was the 
less loss, as he had not paid his rent for some time, and 
the family were also frequently obliged to give him his din- 
ner, because, as Ida told me, "they could not eat their 
own meal in comfort while there was a man in the house 
with nothing to eat." He said, when told that he must 
leave, as Ida was ill and needed the room, that, being for 
that reason, he could not refuse; and when the time came 
he walked away majestically, with a bundle of manuscript 
and a pair of old shoes, which appeared to constitute his 
whole property. And now, as I shall never say anything 
more about the poet, I will add to his credit, that he after- 
ward came back," to everybody's astonishment, and paid up 
all his debts, having obtained employment, I believe, to 
write for a republican newspaper. 

So that year finished and another came; and Ida had a 
little cough, but no one thought much of it. We went 
away again into the country for two months, and during 
that time the sisters wrote to me twice, and Ida's letters 
were happy and affectionate, and she seemed to enjoy her 
new room (which was the very one that looked away into 

the country), and she spoke again of L , as I thought, 

more hopefully. 

We went back to Florence about the first of September, 
and I found Ida still ailing, but with nothing particular 
the matter with her. She was studying for an examina- 
tion so that she might also be a teacher, and she said that 

L wished it. He had now (I believe) only a year and 

a little more left to serve in the army, and during that 
time he expected to come to Florence for a visit. I told 
her that the time would pass soon, and that the long wait- 
ing was nearly over, and she and L would be happy 

now before very long. To this she only answered — "As 
God has destined it, so will it be." I thought sometimes 
that she had become indifferent to her lover, or else that 
she was frightened about her own health, and did not ex- 
pect to recover. I did not like to have her study so much, 
as I was sure it hurt her; but about that it was of no use 

for me to talk. L 's will was law to her, if only it did 

not interfere with her own conscience. 

Her cough had increased, and she could not read to me 



22 THE STORY OF IDA. 

very often. Then one night she was taken ill with insup- 
portable pains in her shoulders, which lasted for several 
hours, and then left her as weak as a baby. That was the 
beginning of the end. 

Poor Giulia suffered more, I think, than her sister. She 
was now herself engaged to be married, and should nat- 
urally have been saving a little money for her wedding out- 
fit. But of this she thought nothing; there was no room 
in her heart now for anything but Ida. All that she could 
save she spent daily in an attempt, nearly vain, to buy 
something that her sister could eat, and then she would 
come to my room, crying bitterly, to tell me of her failures 
and of Ida's constantly progressing illness. But Ida con- 
tinued to come to my room all that winter and spring, and 
the change in her for the worse was so very gradual that I 
was not much frightened about her. She seemed cheerful 
and interested in everything about her, as indeed she 
always had been. She was more beautiful than ever, and 
might have turned the heads of half the men in Florence 
if she had been so disposed, for as a general rule all those 
who saw her fen more or less in love with her. But Ida, 
kind and friendly in her manners with all those who 
treated her respectfully and kept their distance, would 
shrink into herself, and become quite unapproachable at 
the least shadow of a compliment; so that I do not think, 
after all, that any of her numerous admirers ever went so 
far as to make themselves very unhappy about her, seeing 
from the first that she was out of their reach. 

All the poor people used to call her Si Signora" now thai 
she was grown up, though her condition was no higher than 
their own. I am sure that it tuas not that she was better 
dressed than themselves {excepting in the one matter of 
neatness), still less that she gave herself any airs of supe- 
riority, for she was humble almost to a fault, willing to act 
as servant to the loivest amongst them if she could be of any 
ttse,* ready on all occasions to take the lowest place. But 
there was a certain peculiar refinement and unconscious 
loftiness about her which we all felt, and which raised her 
above other people. 

And the summer came again, and this time we had to 
go away earlier than in other years because we had a friend 

* Italics all mine. — J. R. 



THE STORY OF IDA. 23 

very ill in Venice, who wished us to come to him. Ida 
came to take leave of me as I was preparing to leave my 
painting room, and she seemed more sorry to have me go 
than she had ever been before. She loved dearly that room 
where we had first met, and where we had spent so many 
hours together, some sad and some happy: it had always 
been one of her principal cares to put it in order when she 
came to me, and to bring flowers for it, and to make it look 
as pleasant and pretty as she could. And on that day she 
walked around it slowly, stopping often that she might 
look long on each one of the objects grown, in the course of 
time,' to be like familiar friends. And then she came up 
to me and kissed me, and I saw that her eyes were over- 
flowing with tears. I wonder if the thought was in her 
mind that she should never see the place again. 



PART II.* 

What I am going to write now was not known to me 
until very lately — at least, the greater part of it was not. 
Before I left Florence, however, I had begun to feel pretty 
sure that Ida's mysterious illness came of her grief for 

L . One day I said to her, "Ida, tell me if I have 

guessed rightly: you have suffered more about L than 

you have been willing to tell." And she answered, " If I 
have, I have never troubled any one else about it." 

A few days after I left her, L made his long prom- 
ised visit to Florence. He seemed troubled at the change 
in Ida, and met her at first very kindly. He saw her, 
however, only once, and then left her, saying that he 
would come again the next day. The next day, however, 
instead of L<= — himself, came a letter from him saying 
that he had been obliged to leave Florence in haste, and 
that he had not felt able to support the sorrow of taking 
leave of Ida. They never met again. 

Ida was much grieved at his leaving her so abruptly. 
Guilia was more than grieved, — she was suspicious of some- 
thing worse than appeared. Now, there lived in Florence 

* Thus divided by the writer — the evening from the morning. They 
are but one day. — J. R. 



24 THE STORY OF IDA. 

a cousin of L 's, a married lady, with whom the two 

girls were hardly acquainted. To her Giulia went in her 
trouble, and told her all about Ida, and how strangely 

L had behaved toward her; and she asked her to tell 

her the truth, if she knew it, whether he really intended 
to marry her when he should leave the army. The lady ap- 
peared troubled, and answered her very sadly, "You must 
know that L — •. — is in a very difficult position; he has grave 
duties to perform." "What duties?" asked Giulia, who 
could not imagine that any duty could be greater than his 
duty to her sister. And the lady answered, yet more sadly 
than before, that he was the father of two children. The 
horror of the innocent open-hearted Giulia is more easily 
imagined than described. Trembling, she asked of the 
children's mother, and learned that she was another vic- 
tim, even more unfortunate than Ida. L had married 

her by a religious marriage,* promising to marry her 
legally when he should leave the army. She was a Neapol- 
itan, the very same widowed sister-in-law to whom he 
had been in the habit of sending money. So all was ex- 
plained. 

Her first impulse was to tell everything to her sister; 
but Ida was very weak just then, and she almost feared 
that such a shock would be fatal to her. The same con- 
sideration prevented her telling either of her parents, as 
she feared that they would be unable to contain their in- 
dignation. Then she thought that perhaps Ida was going 
to die, and in that case perhaps it would be better that she 
should never know on what a worthless object she had 
set her heart. But she did what was most natural to such 
an open, straightforward girl as Giulia. She wrote to 

L himself, and let him know that she had discovered 

all. She also told him that Ida was growing always worse, 
and that she should not tell her anything about it while 
she was so ill; and she entreated him not to let her suspect 
anything until she should have recovered. 

Now, I cannot imagine what was the captain's motive 
for what he did — whether he did believe Giulia's promise 
of silence, or whether he was tired of Ida and wished to rid 
himself of her. However it may have been, he did what 

* I do not understand how the Catholic priesthood permits itself 
to be made an instrument of this wickedness. — J. K. 



THE STORY; OF IDA. 25 

was sufficiently cruel: lie wrote Ida a letter, and told her 
the whole. Ida never showed that letter to any one, so 
I only know what she told Giulia, who told me. He told 
her that he was not legally bound to his Neapolitan wife, 
and that he meant to separate from her and to marry Ida, 
but that it might be some little time before he could com- 
plete the necessary arrangements. 

From the day that this letter arrived all hope was over 
for Ida, so far as this world was concerned. She broke a 
bloodvessel the same day, and was never the same again. 
She wrote immediately to L , without reproach or re- 
sentment, and told him that there was only one thing for 
him to do: to marry the poor woman whom he had deceived, 
and to give a name to his children. 

Meanwhile she told no one, not even her sister. In the 

titter unselfishness of her affection for L , she seems 

almost to have forgotten her own trouble, and to have thought 
only of saving him from all appearance of blame.* And 
so, for a long time, those two young girls lived on to- 
gether, each one bearing her own burden in silence. Ida's 
hold on this world had never been very strong, and it had 
quite given way now. Her life was going fast away from 
her. 

Meanwhile, L seems to have felt his old affection 

for her, such as it was, revive, at the idea of losing her 
altogether; and he continued to write her passionate and 
imploring letters. Her answers were very gentle and 
patient, written so as to spare his feelings as much as 
possible, but they were very decided. She could never 
belong to him now — he must not think of that anymore — 
but she entreated him to make what reparation he could to 
the poor Neapolitan, and to give her the happiness before 
they parted, of knowing that he had done right. 

And poor Giulia was at her wits' end, seeing her sister 
grow so rapidly worse, and not knowing the reason. She 
wrote to me at Venice, begging that I would use my in- 
fluence to have her sister admitted to the Marine Hospital 
at Viareggio, that she might have a month's sea bathing, 
which some thought would be good for her. As soon as 
Ida heard that I was interesting myself about this, she 
also wrote me a few lines — the last which I ever received 

A, 

* Italics mine.— J. R, 



26 THE STORY OF IDA. 

from her. She thanked me most affectionately, but did 
not wish me to do anything more about it, or to spend any 
money: if it was the Lord's will that she should recover, 
then she should recover. And then, for the last time, 
came the old signature, in a very tremulous hand now — 
"La sua Ida, che li vuol tanto bene." 

However, I still worked to have her admitted, and she was 
admitted. Poor girl! I did not understand then, as I do 
now, the meaning of her letter. I thought that she wished 
only to save me trouble; but I know now that she wrote 
me because she felt that her malady was such" a one as no 
doctors can cure. It was about that time that Giulia dis- 
covered, by some means, that her sister knew the secret she 
had been keeping from her so carefully. I think they were 
both a little happier, or at least a little less miserable, when 
they were able to speak freely to each other of what was 
weighing so heavily on both their minds. About that time 

also L left the army, having obtained his dismission a 

little sooner than was expected. So Ida went to the Marine 
Hospital for a month, and won the hearts of the sisters of 
charity by her beauty, her patience, and her self-forgetful- 
ness. She always waited on herself, being careful to give 
no one trouble; and when the doctor ordered her to use 
some particular herb which grew wild at Viareggio, she 
went out every morning to search for it, gathered, and pre- 
pared it herself. She was very kind and attentive also to 
the poor sick children, who, as usual, made up nearly all 
the inmates of the hospital. 

I am afraid that the letters which I wrote her at this time 
must have given her much pain; for I thought that she 
would recover and marry L , who was now, as I sup- 
posed, free; and I used to write to her about it, meaning 
to encourage her. She never answered my letters, but she 
sent one of them to Giulia, and wrote to her — " The Sig- 
nora Francesca deceives herself always; it is better so." 

L , finding that his professions of love would not 

soften Ida, next tried to work on her compassion. He wrote 
to her that there was great delay about paying his pension, 
and that his children were starving! 

She sent him twenty francs for his children in a letter: 
she did not have the money with her, and she was obliged 
to write to her sister Giulia to lend it to her, saying that 
she could not bear the thought that L 's children should 



THE STORY OF IDA. 27 

suffer. After she went back to Florence she wished to pay 
this money, but Giulia would never take it from her; which 
I suppose was one reason why she left Giulia what she did 
at the time of her death, rather more than four months 
afterward. 

Having gone back to Florence much worse than she had 
left it, she finally obtained the much-wished-for promise 

from L , who agreed to marry his wife legally, and to 

make what reparation he could to his unfortunate children. 
Up to this time Ida had not been willing to follow the urgent 
advice of Giulia, and break off all communication with 

L . As I did not know these facts until after her death, 

of course it is not possible for me to say what her reasons 
were; but I imagine, from what I know of Ida's character 
and of all her conduct in this matter, that it was her wish 
that this Jove which had cost her her life should not be al- 
together wasted, and that it was a comfort to her, in re- 
signing all her own hopes of happiness, to think that she 
might save L from sin, and his family from misery. ■ 

Giulia had wished her to let me know all these par- 
ticulars, saying, " The Signora Francesca would tell us 
what we ought to do." To which Ida replied, " I know 
what J ought to do, and I will do it;* the Signora loves 
me, and would be unhappy if she knew of my troubles." 
But now she agreed to her sister's wish, and wrote a kind 

letter taking leave of L , and asking him not to 

answer it, nor to write to her again. She told him, that 
he must not think that she had any hard feelings against 
him because she made this request, but she thought that 
it would be more for the happiness of both of them, that 
they should cease all communication with each other. 

The effort of writing this letter was so great, that at 
first it nearly killed her, and she became suddenly so 
much worse, that Giulia wished it had never been written. 
However, after a few days, that singular peacefulness 
began to come over her, which afterward remained until 
she died; and she told Giulia that she felt more tranquil 

than for a great while before, and that if L should 

write her another letter she would not even look at it, 
but would give it to her sister to read and answer, that 
she might keep all these past troubles out of her mind. 

* Italics Francesca's, and mine also. — J. R, 



28 THE STORY OF IDA. 

I have done now with all the worldly part of my Ida's 
story: what remains will be only the account of her most 
wonderful and glorious passage into the other world, and 
of the singular and almost visible help which it pleased 
the Lord to give her in her long illness. So, before going 
any further, I will just tell what little more I know about 

L . He never wrote to her again, but he continued to 

send occasionally to the house for news of her, almost 
until the time of her death. I have never been able to 
discover whether he ever kept his promise and married 
his wife legally, but I hope that he did so.* She appears, 
from what I have heard of her, to have been by no means 
a very amiable character; but then there are few tempers 
so sweet as not to be soured by such trouble as hers. 

SoJOctober came, and once again I found myself in 
Florence; where almost my first visit was to Ida's room. 
My first thou glit on seeing her was, that she looked better 
than when I had left her. She sat in an easy chair by the 
open window, — that window that looked away over the 
roofs into the open country; and she had her sewing as 
usual, for she always worked, until she became so feeble as 
to make it actually impossible. I remember her, and 
everything about her, as if the scene were still before me. 
She was dressed in a sort of gray loose gown put on over 
her white night-dress, which gave her something of a 
monastic look, and her chair was covered with a chintz of 
a flowered pattern; her work-basket stood in a chair at her 
knee, and by her side was a little old table, with a few 
books on it, much worn. She was very white certainly, 
but it was a clear luminous white that was extremely beau- 
tiful, and her lips still retained their bloom, which indeed 
they never lost. Her soft hair was partly disheveled, for 
she had just been lying down; but it was such hair as never 
could look rough, and as it fell loosely about her face and 
neck, it so concealed their wasting that she appeared almost 
like one in health. Her eyes were larger and brighter than 
ever— all full of light, it seemed to me — and her face had 
lost that worn, patient look, which it had borne so long, 
and appeared all illuminated with' happiness. 

But if the first sight of her gave me hope, as soon as she 
began to speak the hope was gone. Her voice had grown 

* He did.— J. R. , 



THE STORY OF IDA. 29 

very feeble, and nearly every sentence ended in a cough, 
so violent that it seemed as if it would carry her away in a 
minute. She was quite overcome with joy and thankful- 
ness at seeing me again, and it was difficult to keep her 
from talking more than was prudent. "Oh, Signora, 
Francesca, how I have wanted you to come!" she kept say- 
ing, and her little feverish half-transparent hands closed 
very tightly about mine, and her beautiful eyes looked into 
my face as if they could never see enough of me. Mean- 
while Giulia sat watching us with a flushed, anxious face, 
and blue eyes that kept filling with tears. No doubt about 
which of the sisters suffered most, now! 

As for me, I tried not to look troubled, and to remem- 
ber all that I could about Venice, and what I had seen on 
my journey, to tell Ida; and I sang her some of the old 
tunes that she had been so fond of, and read her a little 
in the Testament; and she was very happy, and we made 
it as much like old times as we could. After that I always 
went to Ida, at first two or three times a week, and after- 
ward every day, as long as she lived. She could not talk 
to me a great deal, but the few words that she said were 
full of comfort. 

Every day I used to read the Bible to her. She asked 
me to read always that, and no other book, and sing her 
some little hymn. I never kneiv any other person so per- 
fectly peaceful and happy as she was then, and for the re- 
maining time, nearly four months, that I had the privilege 
of being near her. She seemed to me almost in heaven 
already, living in the sensible presence of our Lord, and 
in the enjoyment of heavenly things, as I have never 
known any one else to do, for so long a time.* The al- 
most supernatural happiness which she enjoyed — (indeed, 
if I were to write just as I feel and believe, I should leave 
out the almost), had nothing of the convulsionary about 
it: it was quiet and continuous — just the same when she 
was better, and when she was worse, through the nights 
that she could not sleep for coughing, and the days that 
found her always a little weaker: and it left her mind free 
to think, of others, and to invent many ways of saving 



* The italics after these are Francesca's. I have marked the sen- 
tences here for after reference in our ' Our Fathers.' — J. R, 



30 THE STORY OF IDA. 

trouble to her mother and Giulia, and to find little odds 
and ends of work that she was still able to do. 

Her poor mother still clung to hope, and was always 
trying to make out that Ida was better, or at least that she 
was going to be better as soon as the weather changed, or 
when she had taken some new medicine. When she talked 
in this way it used to make Ida a little sad; still she seldom 
said anything directly to discourage her mother, but only 
would say, " It will be as the Lord pleases: He knows 
what He does: perhaps He sees that if I lived I should do 
something wicked." One day, as we sat about her bed, 
where she soon began to spend most of her time, and her 
mother and Giulia were talking about her recovery, she 
said, " Perhaps it would be better that I should not re- 
cover; I can never be well, really: but still, let it be as the 
Lord will." "Have courage, Ida," said Giulia; and her 
mother, "Do not be afraid, my child." "I am not 
afraid," she answered. "I think," I said, "that God 
gives you courage always." "Yes, yes," she answered, 
with a very bright smile: "blessed are His words!" — and 
the poor mother went out of the room. Then Ida looked 
earnestly into my face and said, " There are tears in your 
eyes, but there are none in mine." I asked her if she 
wished to die. She thought a little while, and then said 
that she had no choice in the matter; if it wer* the Lord's 
will that she should die soon, she was very happy to go; or 
if He wished her to recover, she should be happy just the 
same; and if, instead, it pleased Him that she should live 
a long time as ill as she was then, still she wished nothing 
different. And she ended with a very contented smile, 
saying the words which she had said so often — " He 
knows what He does." 

Another time, when I feared that she suffered with her 
constant and wearisome cough, she said, " It does not seem 
to me that I suffer at all; I am so happy that I hardly ever 
remember that I am ill." Her spirit never failed for a 
moment; there were none of those seasons of depression 
which almost always come with a long illness. When 
others asked her how she was able to have so much pa- 
tience, she always answered simply, " God gives it to me." 
A few words like these I can remember, but not many, 
and they were nearly all in answer to our questions. She 
never spoke much about her own feelings, physical or 



THE STORY OF IDA. 31 

mental, and it was more in the wonderful lighting up of 
her face, when she listened to the Bible, than in. what she 
said, that I saw how much she enjoyed. 

All her taste for " pretty things'' continued, and she 
liked to have everything about her as bright and cheerful 
as possible. She had a friend who used to send her, by 
my means, beautiful flowers almost every day, which were 
a great comfort to her, and it was always my work to ar- 
range them on the little table by her bedside. When she 
was too tired and weak for her sewing, or her books of de- 
votion, she used to lie and look at these flowers. Edwige 
(whom every one knows, who knows me, and of whom it is 
enough to say that she is a good and pious widow who 
lives in the country, and who was very fond of Ida) used 
to bring down continually such things as she liked from 
the country, — long streamers of ivy, and branches of winter 
roses and laurustinus, and black and orange-colored ber- 
ries from the heages, — and these were a continual amuse- 
ment to her. As long as she was strong enough, she used 
to like to arrange them herself with the same fanciful 
taste which she had always shown in my painting room, 
ornamenting with them her crucifix, which hung near the 
head of the bed, and her Madonna, and one or two other 
devotional pictures; and what were left she used to twine 
about the framework of her bed itself, so that sometimes 
she looked quite as if she were in an arbor. I think she 
obeyed literally the gospel precept, to be " like men wait- 
ing for their Lord." The poor little room and its dying 
inmate presented always a strangely festive appearance, 
as if they were prepared for the soon expected arrival of 
one greatly loved and longed for. 

The window was always open at the foot of the bed, — 
.for light and air she would have, and her dress and the 
linen of her bed were always as neat and clean as possible, 
to the credit of her mother be it spoken, who did the 
washing herself, with the help of her good little servant- 
maid Filomena. And the pretty flowers and green branches, 
and the fresh smell of the country which came from them, 
and in the midst of it all, Ida's wonderfully happy face, 
made up as bright and inspiriting a scene as I ever came 
near. I know that I used to think it better than going 
to church, to go into Ida's room. 

There was a good American lady in Florence at that 



32 THE STORY OF IDA. 

time, who did not know Ida; but she had lost a little 
daughter herself by the same complaint, and having heard 
of Ida's illness, she used to send her her dinner every day, 
choosing always the best of everything from her own table;* 
and this she continued to do as long as Ida lived. This 
good lady's children went constantly to see her, and always 
asked to be taken there, though they could not speak 
Italian. Children usually avoid a sick room, but she was 
so lovely and peaceful in appearance, that she seemed to 
impress" them more as a beautiful picture than anything 
else, and they were always glad to go up all the stairs to look 
at her. I remember the first time that they ever went 
there, the youngest little girl sat contemplating her for a 
few minutes with a sort of wonder, and then asked me, 
aside, if she might kiss her. 

I have said before that Giulia was engaged to be married. 
Her lover lived at Eome, and he was very anxious to 
marry her as soon as possible. She however was not 
willing to leave her sister while she was so ill; and at 
first I felt as she did, and did not wish her to go away 
from Ida. But there were some reasons why it seemed bet- 
ter that she should soon be married. Her lover was 
strongly and devotedly attached to her, was living quite 
alone and among strangers (he was a Piedmontese), and 
he seemed hardly able to support his long continued soli- 
tude. There was another reason, stronger yet. The doc- 
tor had forbidden Giulia to sleep in the same room with 
Ida, and she and little Luisa had been obliged to return 
into the dark closet where they had slept before. Giulia 
was looking poorly, and had a cough, and seemed very 
much as Ida had been a year ago, and we all wished that 
she might change scene and climate before it was too late. 
Still we all shrank from laying on Ida, in her last days, 
this further burden of separation from her dearly loved, 
only sister. 

It was at once a relief and a surprise to me when, one 
day that they had left me alone with Ida, she began to 
speak to me of Giulia's marriage, and asked me to use all 
my influence with Giulia, and with her mother, to bring 
it about as soon as possible. She said that she had now 
only one wish left in the world and that was to see her 

* Pretty— as if for her own dead daughter.— J. R, 



THE STORY OF IDA. 33 

sister happily married, and that it troubled her to see the 
marriage put off from one day to another. Ida's word 
turned the scale, and in a few days the whole household 
was immersed in preparations for the wedding. I ought 
to say that the household was much reduced in number 
since I had first known the family. One of the little or- 
phans had been adopted into a childless family, another 
had gone to live in the country with his maternal grand- 
mother. The prettiest and sweetest of them all, little 
Silvio, had died, to the great sorrow of all the family, at the 
time when Ida was at Viareggio; so that now only Luisa 
was left at home. The girl's brother, Telemaco, had ob- 
tained some sort of government employment in a distant 
part of the country, so that he too was gone. And only 
the old people, and Luisa and Filomena, would be left to 
take care of Ida after G-iulia should be married. 

And now it seemed as if all poor Ida's hopes for this 
world, which had been so cruelly cut short, were renewed 
again in her enjoyment of Giulia's happiness. One of the 
prettiest pictures that I have in my mind of Ida, is as she 
sat upright in her bed, propped up with pillows, her face 
all beaming with affectionate interest, and did her last 
dressmaking work on Giulia's ivedding gown. She was 
very close to Heaven then, lying, as it were, at the gate of 
the Celestial City, and at times it seemed as if the light 
already began to shine on her face. Still, as long as she 
stayed in the world, she did what she could, and as well as 
she could, for those about her, and could put her heart 
into the smallest trifle for any one whom she loved. 

She seemed always in haste for the wedding day, and 
often told me how much she wished for it: I think that 
she was afraid she might not live to see it. The day came 
at last, — a soft beautiful day of the late autumn, with 
plenty of flowers still in blossom to ornament the table, 
and the air still warm enough to make open windows 
pleasant. We had a very pretty simple wedding at 
S. Lorenzo, and then went back to the house, where 
we found Ida up and sitting in the easy chair, which 
she had not occupied for a long time. She was so excited 
and interested that a slight color had come back into her 
face, and she looked as well as ever, and prettier than ever. 
Poor Giulia, laughing and crying and blushing all at once, 
hurried up to Ida, embraced her, and hid her face on her 



34 THE STORY OF IDA. 

shoulder. Ida folded her closely in her arms for a minute 
or two without speaking, and I knew by the look in her 
face that she was giving thanks in silence, and praying for a 
blessing on this dear sister. When the others went into the 
next room, where the wedding breakfast was already set out 
on the table, they invited me to go with them, but Ida said 
" Let Signora Francesca stay with me for a few minutes, I 
want her to do something for me, and then she will come." 
I could not imagine what Ida wanted, she was so little in 
the habit of wanting anything; but I stayed, and as soon 
as she was satisfied that they had shut the door, she said 
to me, looking very pleased and triumphant, "Do you 
know, Signora Francesca, I am going to the table myself! 
I have always meant to go, when Giulia was married; and 
now you will help me to dress, will you not?" I was al- 
most frightened, but I helped her arrange the lavender- 
colored woolen dress which was her best, — / kneiv now 
why she had spent so much time, during the first months of 
her illness in altering and trimming it,* — and tied her 
white silk handkerchief about her neck; and then she 
took my arm, and we went into the other room together. 

There was a subdued exclamation of surprise from the 
few friends gathered about the table, and then all voices 
were hushed, as she came in slowly, looking rather like a 
vision from the other world, with her wonderful eyes and 
her white illuminated face and her beautiful smile, and 
sat down at the table opposite to her sister. But they were 
soon laughing and talking again, and complimenting Ida 
on her improved health, which enabled her to come to the 
table, and hoping that she would soon be well enough to 
come there every day; and Giulia's husband said that when 
she was a little better she must come to Rome and stay 
with them, where the air would be sure to do her good. I 
think she knew very well that she should never sit at the 
family table again, but she would not say anything to sad- 
den their gayety: so she thanked them all, and took a 
little morsel of cake, and sat looking very earnestly and 
affectionately at her sister; and pretty soon she grew tired, 
and all the loud voices jarred on her, so I led her back to 
the chamber. "This was the last wish I had," she said, 

* Think, girl-reader, of the difference between that dress, and a 
fashionable bridemaid's bought one!— J. R. 



THE STOKY OF IDA. 35 

after we were alone, and she had sunk back wearily into 
her easy chair, " to be with Giulia on her wedding day! 
and now, if you please, tell me all about the wedding in 
the church." I described it to her as minutely as I could, 
and she seemed much interested. Then she wanted me to 
read her a chapter in the Bible, as was my habit, and after 
that I left her. At the head of the stairs I found myself 
waylaid by Giulia, who clung around my neck, weeping 
bitterly at parting with me, and entreated me over and 
over again to be good to Ida after she should be gone 
away. 

The next day when I went there Giulia was gone, and 
Ida was quite weak and tired. She was never well enough 
to sit up again, and she faded away very slowly. The 
second day a letter came from Giulia, written almost in 
the first hour of her arrival in Kome, full of overflowing 
affection. Ida shed some tears at this, but not many; and 
she answered it with her own hand, weak as she was. 
One day, soon after this, as I was sitting beside Ida, she 
asked her mother to leave us alone for a few minutes, as 
she wished to speak to me. "Come a little nearer," she 
said, when we were alone; and I drew up close to her side. 
She took my hand, and looked at me solemnly and a little 
sadly. "I have something," she said, "that I have wanted 
to say to you for a long time: you are very fond of me, 
Siguora Francesca?" I told her that I had always been 
so. " Yes," she said, "but you are much more fond of 
me since I have been ill than you were before, and you 
grow more so every day; I see it in a great many ways." 
" That," I said, "is no more than natural; I could not 
help it if I would." "And lately," she continued, "I 
have begun to be a little afraid that you may like me too 
■much!" " Dear Ida, what do you mean?'' " It is a great 
comfort to me," she said, "to have you with me; but 
sometimes I am afraid that if I should die, you might 
grieve about it, and in that case, I would rather that you 
should not come so often; I could not bear the idea of 
being a cause of sorrow to you. Now, I want you to prom- 
ise that if I die, you will not be unhappy about me." " I 
promise you," I said, " that I will think of you always as 
one of the treasures laid up in Heaven, and I shall al- 
ways thank God that He has let us be together for so long. 
I ahull not be unhappy, but all the happier as long as I 



36 THE STORY OF IDA. 

live, for the time that I have passed in this room." Her 
face brightened. " Then I am quite happy," she said; 
"that was what I wanted: now let my mother come back." 
And having once satisfied herself that I was prepared, she 
never spoke to me of dying again. 

One day a good lady came to see her, who had known 
her before her illness, and she brought her a pretty little 
silver medallion of the Madonna, which gave her great pleas- 
ure, and she never let it go out of her sight afterward, as long 
as she lived. By this time Ida had become so ill that she was 
never able to lie down, but had to sit up day and night up- 
right in her bed, supported by pillows, and her cough al- 
lowed her to sleep but very little. The lady was much 
troubled to see her in this state, and to comfort her, she 
told her that it was necessary to suffer much in this world 
if one would attain to happiness in the other. Ida an- 
ered, "That is my trouble! I ought, I suppose, to suffer 
a little, but I do not. 1 lie here in the midst of 
pleasure" This lady had brought her a little book 
which she called the book of her remembrances, in 
which she had copied many prayers and pious reflec- 
tions from various old authors; and because Ida seem- 
ed pleased with some portions which she read to her, 
she left the book with her, saying that when she had done 
with it, she might return it to her. Ida kept this book 
for several days, so that 1 once asked for it, feeling a little 
uneasy, as I knew the lady held it very precious. She said 
that she should like to keep it a little longer, and I did 
not hurry her. Two days afterward she gave it back to me. 
asking me to give it to the lady, and to ask her pardon for 
having kept it so long. " I have added a little remem- 
brance of my own," she said; " I have copied for her my 
favorite prayer: I could only write a few words at the 
time, and that is why I have kept the book for so many 
days." I looked at it; it was written in a clear round hand, 
with great pains. It was a prayer for the total conformity 
of one's will to the will of God.' I know that the lady for 
whom it was written has kept it always as a great treasure. 

" You are happy," Ida said to me once, " for you are 
strong, and can serve the Lord in many ways." "I hope," 
I said, "that we may both be His servants, but your serv- 
ice is a far more wearisome one than mine." To which 
she answered, with that bright courageous smile of hers, 



THE STORY OF IDA. 37 

" What God sends is never wearisome," — and I know that 
she felt what she said. At another time, in thanking me 
for some little service that I had done for her, she said 
that " I did her much good." "You do more for me," I 
answered. She looked a little puzzled for a minute; then, 
as she took in my meaning, she said, "It is not I who do 
you good; this peace which you see in me is not mine. I 
am nothing but a poor human body with a great sick- 
ness, which 1 feel just as any one else would; this peace is 
of God." 

About the middle of December she received the com- 
munion. As she waited for the arrival of the sacrament 
she thought she saw a beautiful rainbow, which made an 
arch over her bed, and she saw it so plainly that she called 
her mother to look at it, but Signora Martina could see 
nothing. When she found that it was visible to no eyes 
but her own, she did not speak of it again to any one; only 
when I asked her about it, she acknowledged that she had 
seen it, and that it remained for about a quarter of an 
hour: adding, "It is well,— it means peace." 

She feared that it might be somewhat of a shock to her 
sister to hear that she had taken the communion, as it 
might give her the idea that she was worse; and she wrote 
her the news with her own hand, thinking that she could 
tell her more gently than any one else could do. I saw 
Giulia's answer to this letter. " My dearest sister," she 
wrote, "I always knew that you were more fit for Heaven 
than Earth, and I only wish I were as near it as you are!" 

One day a little girl brought her an olive branch, as she 
said, to remind her of the one which the dove brought to 
Noah in the ar^: probably the child did not know how her 
olive branch came, like the dove's, as a token of deliverance 
close at hand; but Ida understood the significance of the 
present, and had the olive branch placed over her Madonna, 
where it seemed to be a great comfort to her, and it stayed 
there until she died. Whenever the room was dusted she 
used to say, " Be careful and do not hurt my olive branch!" 

She still loved hymns and religious poetry, and learned 
by heart many of the verses which I used to sing or recite 
to her. She liked best those which were most grand and 
triumphant. One day, as I was leaving the room, I heard 
her saying to herself in a whisper those beautiful lines of 
S. Francesco d'Assisi; — 



38 THE STORY OE IDA. 

" Amore, Amor Gesu, son giunto a porto 
Arnore, Amor Gesu, da mi conforto." 

She was unselfish in her happiness as she had been in her 
sorrow. One day I found her worse, much distressed and 
agitated: she was sitting up in bed with her prayer-book, 
but there was none of the beautiful peacefulness in her 
face which always accompanied her prayers, — her eyes 
looked positively wild with grief and terror. With some 
difficulty (for she had little voice then), she explained to 
us her trouble, entreating earnestly Edvvige and myself to 
help her with our prayers. One of her neighbors,* a very 
wicked and profane old woman, who had been generally 
avoided by all the others, had met with a sudden and 
fearful accident, and had been carried insensible to the 
hospital, where her death was hourly expected. Ida, as 
her mother afterward told me, had not slept all night, but 
had continued in earnest and incessant prayer for this 
woman's forgiveness,* and so she continued during the few 
hours until she died, asking of all whom she saw the 
charity of a prayer. The poor woman died without speak- 
ing, and only in the next world shall we know whether 
Ida's prayers were heard. I have never felt as if they could 
have been altogether wasted. 

Her charity took in the smallest things as well as the 
greatest, f Often, after leaving her, I used to go to see a 
young lady, a friend of hers and mine, who was an invalid 
just then, and she too liked flowers, so that sometimes 
when I went to Ida's room I would have two bunches of 
flowers in my hands, one for her and one for our friend; 
Ida would always wish to see them both; that she might 
be sure her friend's flowers were quite as pretty as her own, 
and if there were anything very beautiful in her bunch, 
she would take it out and put it in the other. And yet, if 
she cared for anything in this world, she cared for flowers; 



*A11 this is dreadfully puzzling to me, — but I must not begin de- 
bating abowt it here, — only I don't see why one wicked old woman 
should be prayed for more than another. — J. R. 

f Yes, of course ; but the worst of these darling little people is, 
that they usually can't take in the greatest as well as the smallest. 
Why didn't she pray for the King of Italy instead of the old woman? 
I don't understand,— J. R, 



THE STORY OF IDA. 39 

her love for them amounted to a passion.* Every day she 
would ask me particularly about all our acquaintance who 
were ill, or in any trouble; and sometimes it seemed as 
if she cared more for their small ailments than for her own 
deadly illness. . 

Christmas Day came, her last Christmas in this world; 
and Ida and I arranged between us to have a little party 
in her room! Of course it was very little and quiet, be- 
cause she was so weak then. There were only the old peo- 
ple, Luisa, and her little sister (the one who had been 
adopted into the family), Filomena and myself. But the 
room looked very pretty; Ida said it was the festa del 
Gesii Bambino, and she had her little picture of the Gesu 
Bambino taken down from the wall and placed on the 
table beside her, all surrounded with flowers and green 
branches. I arranged all this under her superintendence, 
and then set the table for breakfast close to her bed, that 
the family might eat with her once more. How pleased 
and happy she was while all this was going on! She was 
a child to the last in her enjoyment of little things. Then 
they came in; but before breakfast she would have me read 
S. Luke's story of the Nativity, and sing the old Christ- 
mas hymn — 

" JVIira, cuor mio durissimo, 
II bel Bambin Gesu, 
Che in quel presepe asprissimo, 
Or lo i'ai nascer tu!" 

Then we all ate together; even Ida's tame ringdove, her 
constant companion during her illness, who was standing 
on the pillow close to her cheek, had his meal with the 
rest. 

And after that came a great surprise: Ida put her hand 
under the sheet, and drew out, one by one, a little present 
for each of the family. But this was a little too much, 
being so unexpected; and when she gave her father his 
present, which consisted of some linen handkerchiefs, the 
poor old man after vainly trying once or twice to speak, 
dropped his head with an uncontrollable burst of sobs, and 
was obliged, in a few minutes, to leave the room; and so 

* Just the reason why she wouldn't take the best. I understand 
that.— J. R. 



40 THE STORY OF IDA. 

ended Ida's last festa. The next day I found her hem- 
ming one of the handkerchiefs for her father; it was the 
last work that she ever did, and it took her several days 
to finish it, a few stitches at a time. 

I am coming to the end of my story now. Soon after 
that, she began to be much worse, and we saw that we 
had her for only a few days. On the last day of the old 
year I was with her in the morning, and found her very 
weak, and, I feared, suffering much, though she made no 
complaint, and seemed to enjoy my reading as much as 
usual. I left her, promising to come again the next morn- 
ing. About three o'clock the same day, as I sat at work, 
little Luisa came to my room, and said that Ida had fallen 
asleep, and they could not waken her. I immediately went 
home with the child, and Edwige also came with us, as 
she was in my room at the time. It was a dark, wet, 
gloomy day, but not cold; and we found Ida's room all 
open to the air, as usual. I had feared, from what the 
child said, to find Ida dead; but instead of that she was 
really in a deep and most peaceful sleep, sitting upright in 
the bed, with her face to the window. Everything about 
her was white; but her face was whiter than the linen — at 
least, it appeared so, being so full of light; only her lips 
had still a rosy color. Her dark hair fell over her shoul- 
ders, and one hand lay on the outside of the sheet; her 
hand did not look wasted any more, but was beautiful, as 
when I used to paint it. 

We all stood about her in tears, fearing every minute 
lest her quiet breathing should cease — for her mother had 
been vainly trying for some time to awaken her, and none 
of us knew what this long sleep meant — when all at once 
the sun, which had been all day obscured, just as it was 
setting, came out from behind a cloud ; and shining 
through the open window at the foot of the bed, framed 
in a square of light the beautiful patient face, and the 
white dress, and the white pillow, while the weeping fam- 
ily about the bed remained in shadow. I never saw any- 
thing so solemn and overpowering; no one felt like speak- 
ing; we stood and looked on in silence, as this last ray of 
light of the year 1872, the year which had been so full of 
events to Ida, after resting on her for a few minutes, grad- 
ually faded away. 

Soon afterward she awoke, and seemed refreshed by her 



THE STORY OF IDA. 41 

sleep, and said she had been dreaming she was in a beauti- 
ful green field. After this she slept much, which was a 
mercy: and would often drop asleep through weakness, 
even while we were speaking to her. In these last days 
she wanted me always to read her passages from S. Paul; 
and the epfstles of S. Paul have become so associated with 
her in my mind, that I can never read them without think- 
ing of her, as I am constantly coming to some of her 
favorite verses. I see now, as I look at these verses, that 
they are, without exception, those that express our utter 
helplessness, and the perfect sufficiency of the Saviour: 
two truths — or rather one, for they cannot be separated — 
which had become profoundly impressed on her mind, and 
which she, as it were, lived on during her illness. 

About a week before her death, as Edwige was sitting 
alone by her, she said, " This can last but a very few days 
now: pray for me, that I may have patience for the little 

time that remains." Then she spoke of L , and said 

that she could not bear to hear people say, that he had 
caused her death by deserting her. " It was my own wish," 
she said, " to part from him; and it would have been better 
if we had parted before."* With her usual care for his 
good name, of which he was himself so careless, she said 
nothing of the reason for which she had wished to part 
from him, but let it pass as a caprice of her own. Then 
she asked Edwige, as a last favor, to help Filomena dress 
her for her grave, in case that her mother should not feel 
strong enough to do so. She seemed to shrink from the 
idea Gf being put into the hands of a stranger. 

After this she often asked for the prayers of those about 
her, and always that she might have patience until the 
end. She never asked us to pray for the safety of her 
soul, for she was half in heaven already, and the time for 
doubting and fearing was over. I think it was on Friday 
that she spoke to her mother about her funeral, and tried to 
arrange everything so as to save trouble and expense to the 
family. That night she was in much pain, and not able 
to sleep, which greatly distressed her mother; but she said, 
"Why do you mind, mother? I shall have all eternity to 



* Take care, girl-reader, that you do not take this for pride. She 
is only thinking of shielding her lover from blame, so far as truth 
might.— J. R. 



42 THE STORY OF IDA. 

rest in." On Saturday morning, as usual, she asked me 
to read her something of S. Paul. I read the fourth 
chapter of the second epistle to the Corinthians. As I 
came to the verse, "We having the same spirit of faith, 
according as it is written, ' I believed, and therefore have I 
spoken/ we also believe, and therefore speak," I looked up 
to see if she were able to attend, and I saw her face all 
lighted up, and she whispered, or rather her lips formed 
the word "beautiful." But as I came to the end of the 
chapter, that unconquerable drowsiness came over her, and 
she fell asleep. I never read to her again. 

On Sunday she was worse — slept almost all the time; and 
when she was awake, wandered a little in her mind, think- 
ing that she saw birds flying about the room. On 
Monday, when I went to her, I found her asleep; and 
though I stayed some little time, she did not awake. I 
knew she would be disappointed not to see me; so as I had 
some things to do, I went away, telling her mother that I 
would come back soon. On my return I was met on the 
stairs by one of the neighbors, who had been watching 
for me at the door. " She is worse!" she said; " I wanted 
to tell you, for fear that it should shock you too much to 
see her, without knowing it beforehand." I thanked 
her, and hurried up to Ida. The priest, who had been 
very kind all through her illness, was sitting by the bed, and 
a crucifix and prayer-book were lying on it by Ida's side. 
She had changed much in the one hour since I had left her 
sleeping so quietly. The peculiar unmistakable look of 
death was on her face, and she seemed much distressed for 
breath. I paused at the door, and the priest asked me to 
come in. Ida turned her eyes, from which the light was 
fast fading, toward me, and the old smile came back to 
her face as bright and courageous as ever. " God gives you 
courage still, I see, Ida!" 1 said to her, as I came up to 
her side. She could not speak, but she nodded her head 
emphatically. Then she made a sign for me to sit down 
in my old place, near the foot of the bed, where her eyes 
could rest on my face; and there I sat through almost the 
whole of that sad yet beautiful day. Once she made a sign 
for me to come near her; I thought she had something to 
say to me, and put my face close to hers, that I might 
understand her; but she did not speak, only kissed me 
twice over. That was her farewell to me. 



THE STORY OF IDA. 43 

All day long she alternated between sleep and periods of 
great distress for breath. Toward the end of the day, as 
she awoke out of a sort of stupor, her face became very 
beautiful, with a beauty not of this world. It was that 
bellezza della morte, which is seen sometimes in great saints, 
or in innocent little children, when they are passing away. 
I cannot describe it. I suppose it is what the old Jews 
saw in the face of S. Stephen, when it became "like the 
face of an angel." Certainly it was more like heaven than 
anything else we ever see in this world. She looked at 
me, then at her mother, with a smile of wonderful joy and 
intelligence; then raised her eyes toward heaven with a 
look, as it were, of joyful recognition, — perhaps she saw 
something that we could not, — and her face was in a man-. 
n er transfigured, as if a ray of celestial light had fallen on 
it. This lasted for a few minutes, and than she dropped 
asleep. When evening came on, they sent for me to come 
home. She seemed a little better just then, and when I 
asked if she were willing that I should leave her, she nod- 
ded and whispered, " To-morrotv morning \" About seven 
o'clock that evening, without any warning, she suddenly 
threw her arms wide open, her head dropped on her bosom, 
— and she was gone. 

The next morning, when I went to the house, she was 
laid down on the bed, for the first time for two or three 
months. The heap of pillows and cushions and blankets 
and shawls had all been taken away, and she lay looking 
very happy and peaceful, with a face like white wax. 
Even her lips were perfectly white at last; they were closed 
in a very pleasant smile. I went into the next room, 
where the family were all sitting together. The poor 
mother gave me a letter which Ida had written and con- 
signed to Lena, (an intimate friend of hers,) a few days 
before her death, with directions to give it to her mother 
as soon as she should be gone. In this letter she disposed 
of what little she had in money and ornaments. 

She had never bought any ornament for herself, but 
several had been given to her, and she divided them, as 
she best could, among her relations and friends. Most of 
the letter, however, was taken up with trying to comfort 
her father and mother. She thanked them with the ut- 
most tenderness for all that they had done for her, espe- 
cially in her illness, and entreated them not to mourn very 



ii THE STORY OF IDA. 

much for her; reminding them that, if she had lived a 
long life, she would probably have suffered much more than 
she had done. She left many affectionate and comforting 
messages to her brother, her sister, and various friends. She 
also left many directions for her burial, — among others, that 
a crucifix, which her dear old friend Edwige had given heron 
New Year's day, should be placed on her bosom, and buried 
with her. So the letter must have been written after New 
Year, at a time when she suffered greatly, and was too ill and 
weak almost to speak; and yet, not only did she enter into 
the smallest particulars (even to leaving her black dress to 
Filomena, and advising her to alter the trimming on some 
other clothes, so as not to spend for the mourning), but she 
even took the pains to write the whole letter in a very large 
round hand, that her mother, whose sight was failing, 
might read it ivithout difficulty. A little money which she 
had in the savings bank, and which was to have been her 
dowry, she left to her beloved sister Giulia. To me she 
left a ring and some of her hair. I read this letter aloud 
amid the sobs of the family, which came the more as each 
one heard his or her own name recorded with so much affec- 
tion. We went back into her room, and her mother 
opened the little drawer in the table at the head of the bed, 
where she had kept her few treasures, and took out the lit- 
tle ring which she had left me, and put it on my finger 
without speaking, as we stood by Ida's side. Then I 
went away to find some flowers — the last flowers that I was 
ever to bring to Ida! The first lilies of the valley came 
that day, and I was glad to have them for her, for they 
were her favorite flowers. 

Late in the day I went back to sit, for the last time, a 
little by Ida's bedside. Edwige and Filomena had dressed 
her then for her grave, and very lovely she looked. She 
wore a simple loose dress of white muslin; her beautiful 
dark hair, parted in the middle, was spread over her 
shoulders and bosom, and covered her completely to the 
waist. Edwige's crucifix and a small bunch of sweet flow- 
ers lay on her bosom. Her little flaxen hands, beautiful 
still as in life, were not orossed stiffly, but retained all 
their flexible grace, as they lay one in the other, one of 
them holding a white camellia. A large garland, sent by 
the same friend who had for so long supplied her with 
flowers, was laid on the bed, inclosing her whole person as 



THE STORY OP IDA. 



45 



in a frame. Sometimes these garlands are made alto- 
gether of white flowers for a young girl; but Ida had been 
always so fond of bright colors, and of everything cheer- 
ful and pleasant, *and her passing away had been so happy, 
that it seemed more natural in her garland to have roses 
and violets and jonquils, and all the variety of flowers. 
There was not one too gay for her! Six wax torches in 
large, tall candlesticks, brought from the church, stood 
about her; the good priest sent those. 

We all sat down beside her for a while, and I felt as if I 
should never be ready to leave her; but at last it grew late, 
and I had to come away. For a minute at the door I 
turned back, and wiped away the tears, that I might take 
one more look at the beautiful face smiling among the 
flowers; then I passed on, and my long, happy attendance 
in that chamber was over. That night, when she was 
carried away, the artist who had long wished to paint her 
portrait followed her to S. Caterina, where all the dead of 
Florence are laid for one night, and went in and drew her 
likeness by lamplight. All the servants employed about 
the establishment gathered about her, wondering at her 
beauty. 

Ida is buried in the poor people's burying ground at 
Trespiano. Edwige went to see her grave a while ago, 
and found it all grown over with little wild "morning 
glories." There is a slab of white marble there, with the 
inscription "Ida, aged nineteen, fell asleep in the peace of 
the Lord, 20th January, 1873"; and over the inscription 
is carved a dove with a branch of olive in its beak. I miss 
her much, but I remember my promise to her, and there 
has never been any bitterness in my grief for Ida. She 
does not seem far away; she was so near Heaven before, 
that we cannot feel that she has gone a very long journey. 



THE EKD. 



The Seaside Library 

ORDINARY EDITION. 



GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vanclewater Street, New York. 



The following works contained in The Seaside Ltbrary, Ordinary Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by the 
publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. 



NO MRS. ALEXANDER'S WORKS. PRICE . 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O't 20 

46 The Heritatre of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton's Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie's Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral's Ward 20 

WILLIAM BLACK'S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmeny 10 

53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of "Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale's Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., iu the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 



U THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE'S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirlev 20 

311 The Professor 10 

329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

MISS M. E. BRADDON'S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End.. 20 

89 The Lovels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men's Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor's Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham '. 10 

1 10 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley's Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte's Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor's Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 

481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard's Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft. 10 

525 Sir JasDer's Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World : 20 

550 Fenton's Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont's Legacy 20 

572 The Lady's Mile . . 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield's Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Mfsery 20 

70d Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody's Daughter, Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody's Daughter, Part II, . t 30 



THE SEASIDE LIBRAE Y.~- Ordinary Edition. n* 

» , 

MISS M. E. BRADDON'S WORKS.— Continued. 

811 Dudlev Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

(154 The Misletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 Married in Haste (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

RHODA BROUGHTONS WORKS. 

186 "Good-Bye, Sweetheart" 10 

269 Red as a Rose is She 20 

285 Cometh Up as a Flower , 10 

402 " Not Wisely, But Too Well " 20 

458 Nancy 20 

526 Joan 20 

762 Second Thoughts 20 

WILKIE COLLINS' WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady's Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue's Life 10 

551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel's Daughter 20 

713 The Captain's Last Love 10 

721 Basil.." 20 

745 The Made Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Ilerne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

&90 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science, A Story of the Present Time 20 



XY THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. 

J. FENIMORE COOPER'S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslaver 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing and- Wing.. 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to "Afloat and Ashore") 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan's Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 

118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody's Lucgage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings , . . 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler's Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey's Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples s , , , . 10 

82? The Mudf og Papers, &c. . . ,....,,..., 10 



THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. V 

CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS— Continued. 

860 The Mvstery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child's History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

1682 The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens, with a few Miscel- 
lanies in Prose, now First Collected. Edited, Prefaced, 
and Annotated by Richard Heme Shepherd. First half. 20 
1682 The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens, with a few Mis- 
cellanies in Prose, now First Collected. Edited, Pref- 
aced, and Annotated by Richard Heme Shepherd. Sec- 
ond half 20 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF " DORA THORNE." 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin's Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynue's Choice; or, True Love Never Ruus Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thome 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 

931 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

1013 Lady Gwendoline's Dream 10 

1018 Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love 10 

1060 A Woman's War 10 

1072 Hilary'sFolly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin 10 

1081 ABridgeof Love 10 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding- Ring 10 

1127 Love's Warfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Indedew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or, Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 The Wife's Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins , , * 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 

1664 Rom^c^ of a Black Veil. ,,,,,,....., 30 



The Seaside Library. 



POCKET EDITION. 



NO. PRICE. 

1 YOLANDE. By William Black 20 

2 MOLLY BAWN. By " The Duchess " 20 

3 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. By George Eliot 20 

4 UNDER TWO FLAGS. By " Ouida" 20 

5 THE ADMIRAL'S WARD. By Mrs. Alexander 20 

6 PORTIA. By " The Duchess " 20 

7 FILE No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 EAST LYNNE. By Mrs. Henry Wood 20 

9 WANDA, COUNTESS VON SZALRAS. By " Ouida" 20 

10 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. By Charles Dickens 20 

11 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. By Miss Mulock 20 

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14 AIRY FAIRY LILIAN. By " The Duchess " 20 

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16 PHYLLIS. By "The Duchess" 2) 

17 THE WOOING O'T. By Mrs. Alexander 20 

18 SHANDON BELLS. By William Black 20 

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20 WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

21 SUNRISE : A STORY OF THESE TIMES. By William Black 20 

22 DAVID COPPERFIELD. By Charles Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

22 DAVID COPPERFIELD. By Charles Dickens. Vol. II 20 

23 A PRINCESS OF THULE. By William Black 20 

24 PICKWICK PAPERS. By Charles Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 PICKWICK PAPERS. By Charles Dickens. Vol. II 20 

25 MRS. GEOFFREY. By " The Duchess " 20 

26 MONSIEUR LECOQ. By Emile Gaboriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 MONSIEUR LECOQ. By Emile Gaboriau. Vol. II 20 

2T VANITY FAIR. By William M. Thackeray 20 

28 IVANHOE. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart 20 

29 BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS. By " The Duchess " 20 

30 FAITH AND UNFAITH. By " The Duchess " 20 

31 MIDDLEMARCH. By George Eliot 20 

33 THE CLIQUE OF GOLD. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

34 DANIEL DERONDA. By George Eliot 30 

35 LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

36 ADAM BEDE. By George Eliot : : 20 

37 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. By Charles Dickens ■ 30 

38 THE WIDOW LEROUGE. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

39 IN SILK ATTIRE. By William Black 20 

40 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. By Bulwer Lytton 20 

41 OLIVER TWIST. Bv Charles Dickens 20 

42 ROMOLA. By George Eliot 20 

43 THE MYSTERY OF ORCIVAL. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

44 MACLEOD OF DARE. By William Black 20 

45 A LITTLE PILGRIM. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

47ALTIORA PETO. By Laurence Oliphant 20 

48 THICKER THAN WATER. By James Payn 20 

49 THAT BEAUTIF UL WRETCH. By William Black 20 

50 THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON. By William Black... 20 

51 DORA THORNE. By the Author op " Her Mother's Sin " 20 

53 THE STORY OF IDA. By Francesca '. 10 

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